Stone by Shattered Stone
by xCrimsonxBlackxBloodx
Summary: He remembers feeling so damned proud-like his heart might burst and the joy might overflow-as he treks up the dirt road with his flesh-and-blood brother. Remembers the tremor in Winry's voice when she whispers, Welcome home. Wonders if maybe, just maybe, he could feel this way forever. He should really have realized that's not the way the world works.


**Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.**

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 **Stone by Shattered Stone**

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 _"_ _We all build internal sea walls to keep at bay the sadnesses of life and the often overwhelming forces within our minds. In whatever way we do this_ _ _―_ through love, work, family, faith, friends, denial, alcohol, drugs, or medication_ _ _―_ we build these walls, stone by stone, over a lifetime. " _

_―_ _Kay Redfield Jamison,_ An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness

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He remembers it, he really does—feeling so proud that he might walk on air, that his heart might burst, that the sheer joy might leak from his eyes. He wants to sing and jump and skip like an over-excited kid. He can't do that, though, because his brother—his little brother, all flesh and blood and bone and cheeky grins, and he's so fucking _perfect_ —won't be able to keep up with him if he does.

So he keeps his pace slow, steady, keeps his fidgeting to a minimum as they make their way to the Rockbell home, to show Winry and Granny that they're _home_ now, that they'd saved the world and accomplished what the world told them they would never be able to do, that everything is finally okay.

He remembers the surprise showing in Den's ears. Remembers the surprise on Winry's face, then the flash of annoyance—how could they not have told her earlier? Not even a five-minute phone call—that narrows her mouth, then the heavy tears that fall from her bright blue eyes as she runs toward both brothers, tumbling into them and sending them ass over tea kettle onto the ground.

Welcome home, she whispers, dirt stains on her skirt and the early summer sun lighting her blond hair. Welcome home.

For one naïve moment, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could be this happy forever.

He really should know by now that's just not the way the world works.

* * *

"Ed?"Winry's voice is sharp—dammit, is she annoyed again? What has he done this time?—when it finally digs into his ears. Her eyes are narrowed and arms akimbo as she stares, waiting for an answer that he most definitely can't give.

He blinks. Scrubs at his face. His hand catches against the stubble lining his jaw, rough like the tongue of the fucking calico cat that wandered in one day and that Al refused to send away. Shit, his eyes feel grimy and, really, had someone replaced his jaw with cold metal? His teeth throb dully.

"Hey!"

He starts, blinks a few more times, tries to focus his gaze on Winry. Her eyes narrow a little more, her lips purse. She leans forward a few centimeters, and her pale hair falls over a shoulder. Her hands are still on her hips, which… is a good thing? At least he can see her hands.

They're wrench-free.

He shakes his head for good measure, and he swears a few cobwebs fly from his ears. Clears his throat. What had she said to him? Was it someone's birthday? No. An anniversary of some sort he was supposed to know about? He doesn't think so…

Gah. Why'd his brain have to be so damned slow lately? It feels like he'd left it underwater for a week. Or had gotten a concussion. Or… something.

"Damnit, Edward!" Her voice lashes through the air, and he jumps in spite of himself. "Are you just going to sit there and stare all day or are you going to hurry up and get ready!"

"Huh?" Get ready? What the hell was she going on about? He and Al had already picked up that heavy-ass box of automail alloys for her that morning. They wouldn't have anything else to pick up from the train station for a least a week. Were they supposed to meet up with someone? He sure as fuck doesn't remember anyone telling him _that_. "Ready for what?"

"For Midsummer! You and Al both promised that you'd come to town with me to celebrate!" Her eyes flash a warning and the fingers on her right hand twitch. For a flash of a second, a klaxon goes off in his head, lights flashing red and sentries screaming about incoming fire. His brain, sopping wet as it is from its time underwater, rings itself out over the klaxon and the lights and the sentries, though, shutting them all up. Too much work to worry about—

Wait.

Hang on a second.

"Midsummer?" But Midsummer's next week… isn't it?

The noise that leaves her throat sounds like a decidedly pissed off cat. Her arms fly up in surrender, and the hemline of her summer dress flutters with the action. How did he not notice her wearing a summer dress? It wasn't like she wears them often, and this one—blue and white and made of light, flowing fabric—shows off her calves and shoulders quite nicely…

"You've got five minutes to find some decent clothes and put your shoes on," she tells him, "or else I'll drag you to the festival without your shoes, and I _won't_ help you get the rocks out of your automail foot afterward."

Right. The festival. With music and dancing and food and a thirty-foot-tall bonfire once it gets dark enough. Mr. Moorcock will probably roll out a few barrels of cider and Granny'll drink too much of it, and the Carpenter sisters will make eyes at Al like they had at the train station, and Mr. Renbak'll bow to Winry and ask her to dance like he had for every Midsummer since they were four, and Ed will…

He'll—

"You have four and a half minutes, Ed!" Winry's voice rattles around his brain again, banishing the whispery memories and half-formed thoughts with the biggest fucking broom he's ever seen. She grabs him by the wrist and pulls him off the little bench that rests by the front door. "Get going!"

Right. Get going Elric, you forgetful bastard. You promised you'd go, so you will. But he still can't stop the groan that bubbles through his teeth as he pushes through the screen door and into the house.

Why does it all seem like so much work?

Still, four and a half minutes later, dust is collecting in the cuffs Ed's tan trousers, and Al and Winry are both chittering beside him as they walk. How Al thinks he'll manage to keep that waistcoat on throughout the evening is beyond him—he, personally, is already considering rolling up the sleeves of his pale button-up—and, well, there's a people insist that the former Fullmetal Alchemist is a genius.

A sneaky little spirit hiding at the base of his skull shrieks with cruel laughter— _genius, yeah right_ —at that thought. He gives the fucker a good punt.

The music is already playing when they arrive at the tiny town square, the tune bright and lively and heavy with the metal tang of a pair of spoons, and bushels of wildflowers are tied with vibrant ribbon to drain pipes and patio railings, dropping from eaves and lining the windows of the restaurant and general store. Children, giggling and shouting, run underfoot. The air is thick with the smell of roasting mutton.

Winry hooks her elbow in his, drags him off to talk to Nellie, Mr. Renbak, Mrs. Carpenter, the stationmaster… so many faces. So many stories to remember and tales to listen to. He tries to listen, to pay attention to tales of children and sheep and the latest from East City, but they rattle around his head until they become barbs in his brain, pricking and piercing until he thinks he might explode from it all—

Food is passed around, and a pitcher of cider is pressed into his fingers. He thinks he might have mumbled a clumsy "thank you" but his head is throbbing violently now, and it might have come out as a grunt. The drink is… astringent, but cold and light and fruity, and he probably drinks it faster than he should, but it helps relax the words flittering about his mind like angry moths, and at least he has an excuse for his muddy, half-drowned brain now.

Al's… somewhere. Maybe off with one of the Carpenter sisters— _maybe both, 'cause he's always better than you,_ and back into that oily little corner the voice goes _—_ but Ed hasn't seen him for a few hours now, so he's probably having a good time.

He eats the food, regrets it when it sits too heavy in his stomach, and tries to remember how to smile—just an upturn of the lips, don't show too much tooth or that's a grimace—when Mr. Renbak bows to Winry. With a glance back to him, she accepts. Soon she's laughing. Twirling and moving and swaying to the music.

He follows the movement of her calves, eyes Mr. Renbak's hand on the small of her back, but the bright dresses and light footsteps around them flutter and sway and soon he can't focus on anything at all.

Find a place to sit. That's it. He just needs to sit down for a minute, collect himself, and make it through another couple of hours before he can crawl into his soft, cool bed and sleep straight through until the sun explodes and bioalchemy innovations can create flying pigs. He stumbles through the crowd—someone laughs, and it's definitely at him—makes it up the two worn, wooden steps to Resembool's sole restaurant. There are people there, talking and twittering and laughing while candles light up their faces, but there are empty seats, too, and that's what matters.

He practically _collapses_ into the nearest chair, and it's hard and it rocks on uneven legs, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders and back nearly melt as he closes his eyes and leans back. The miners picking away at the inside of his skull decide to take a lunch break, which is the biggest fucking relief he can imagine right now. His spine pops in a few places. And he can breathe now, which is just fucking _awesome_ , because he rather likes breathing, thankyouverymuch, and—

He remains there for fuck knows how long, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes until little stars and flashes dance behind his lids while the dancers in the square step in time to the lively music. If he's very, very still he can focus on his lungs, on the mild air curling into his mouth and gliding down his throat, and he can block out just how much he wants to go home, curl up into a ball, and let the world disappear around him—

"I was wondering where you got off to," Winry's voice is as bright and jovial as the music still filtering around them. There's a moment of silence, then the squeal of a rickity wooden chair on worn patio planks drills into his ears. "Is… Are you okay, Ed?"

 _You can't say anything_ , the pernicious little voice tells him, and he wonders how it had managed to free itself from the dark, oily corner to where he'd banished it. It's a tenacious bastard; he has to give it that. _She doesn't care, anyway. You'll just annoy her like you always do._

There's something about the voice—the way it sounds as it slides through his mind and envelopes his consciousness—that keeps him from outright scoffing at it. The mental shove he gives it, to send it back to its little corner, is half-hearted.

He pulls his hands from his face, blinks up at her with bleary eyes. She regards him with worry plucking at the tiny crow's feet that are already starting to develop. "If you're not feeling up to it," she tells him, "we can always go back to the house."

But she glances at the party as she says it, at the people laughing and dancing and making merry, and it couldn't be more obvious, even to him, that that's the last thing she really wants to do. So he forces a smile on his face, hopes it doesn't come across as a grimace, and says "It's nothing. I'm fine. You done with your stupid dance with Mr. Renbak?"

She scowls at him, her eyes searching— _she knows you're a liar,_ the voice whispers, _and she hates you for it_ —then she shrugs it off and pulls herself back to her feet. "It's not stupid, Ed, and at least he's nice enough to actually ask me to dance."

He sighs. Gathers his own heavy feet beneath him. It's too much work to try to argue with her right now, to be stubborn and steadfast and whatever else. Besides, he supposes it's the least he can do, after being such an ass to her for all those years while he and Al were gallivanting across the country, so he offers her his hand. "Come on, then."

"What?" She blinks her surprise.

He grabs her fingers, feels the callouses and blisters on her knuckles and palms, wonders if perhaps he should feel something more than just tired and worn down and slightly sick. And he really, truly, honest to fuck does try to enjoy himself throughout the night; tries to laugh along with her when she accidentally stepped on his left foot, tries to listen to her after they'd abandoned the babel and energy of the town square to find somewhere more quiet, tries to _feel_ something when she presses her mouth to his.

But he just… can't.


End file.
